


Looking Back, Looking Forward

by Melina



Category: Highlander, The Sentinel
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Sequel, hl, ts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-20
Updated: 2000-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melina/pseuds/Melina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On very rare occasions, someone comes into your life and changes your destiny forever, giving you something so precious that you're certain you can never repay them in kind. After the death of Richie Ryan, Jim Ellison helped Duncan MacLeod find the courage to face life again. When Duncan the chance to help Jim set his own life back on course fifteen years later, Duncan can't turn away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking Back, Looking Forward

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Bone's series of Jim &amp; Duncan stories called The Look, Look Again, and One Last Look, which can be found at http://www.mrks.org/~bone/other. Bone encouraged me to follow through after I made a comment about an idea for another sequel, and she has helped me enormously along the way. I owe her many thanks for allowing me to play in her sandbox. This story originally appeared in the zine Wounded Heroes.

Paris, France  
March, 2014

I don't think about him all that often.

It surprises me a little to acknowledge that to myself, but it's the truth. It's not that the memories aren't vivid. It's definitely not that. I can remember every second with amazing clarity. How he tasted like the imported beer he'd nursed at Joe's that first night. How his hands felt when they slid around my waist and unbuckled my belt as I leaned against the desk. How hot and strong his body felt pressed against mine during that long, too-short night in the Clearview Hotel. How his eyes were bright with heat when I fucked him on his kitchen floor in Cascade.

No, the memories are plenty vivid. It's not that. And our encounters came at such pivotal moments for me. When we first met at Joe's, it was just a year after Tessa's death, right before I met Anne -- and months before I met a certain old man with a bad temper and a big nose. The last time we saw each other in Cascade, he gave me what I needed to go back to Paris and face what I had to do. But that wasn't all he gave me; the intensity of my last experience with Jim is what finally kicked down the barrier inside me that had been resisting my attraction to Methos. Maybe if it hadn't been Jim, it would have been somebody else. But maybe not. Maybe without him, I'd still be resisting the critical, sarcastic S.O.B. You know, the guy I've been in love with for twenty years or so.

I never told him about Jim. At first, the time just never seemed right, and then it seemed like it was in the past, not important. It's not like we sit around cataloguing our sexual histories for each other. It's quite enough when the histories come calling.

So maybe that's why I don't think about Jim very often. On rare occasions, I dust off the memory. Usually it happens after Methos and I have had an argument, when our lives seem ridiculously complicated; I remember the simplicity of what Jim and I shared -- the unusual intimacy, the connection we had, without all the baggage. After an hour or so on the receiving end of Methos' bitter sarcasm...the idea of simplicity is so very appealing.

Other than timing, I'm not sure why I never told Methos about Jim. It's not jealousy...we haven't been completely faithful to each other. I really hate that expression. If there's no deception involved, why does making love with someone else have to be unfaithful? Why does it show a lack of faith? I think it shows a lot of faith in what we have, the certainty that it will be there to come back to.

It's not like it happens all that often. We just haven't been together 100 percent of the time, which is probably for the better. We're not into dramatic departure scenes following an argument; we sort of have an unwritten rule that when we're angry, we only leave for long enough to cool off. But I've gone on extended buying trips; he's guest-lectured for weeks or months at a time at the University of Wherever. Sometimes one of us will get wanderlust, and though we often travel together, sometimes the other just can't get away right then. So most of the times we've slept with other people have been during those periods we've been apart.

But not always. About five years ago, Amanda lost somebody she'd been close to for a long time. It was ugly and violent, and she blamed herself. Lucy called me in a total panic. I've known Lucy for as long as she's been with Amanda, and I've never heard her sound as totally unglued as she did during that phone call. She really thought Amanda was going to prowl for a challenge until she found someone to take her head.

When I hung up the phone, I started to pack without thinking. Of course I had to go to her. At the same time, it was very weird to think about leaving my house -- our house -- the house Methos and I shared -- to go to Amanda. Sex and comfort have always been intertwined for the two of us. Could I give Amanda what she needed without that? Would it bother Methos if I did?

He came into the bedroom, and I told him what was going on. It took him...oh, all of about thirty seconds to read my mind. He said that Amanda was my oldest friend besides Connor, and that I should do whatever she needed to help her survive. "It's nothing to do with us," he said. "Give her what she needs. I'll be here when you get back." It's amazing. As much as Methos tends to gripe about the mundane, when it comes to what's really important, he has one of the most generous spirits I've ever known.

Just as said he would be, Methos was there when I came home. I'd spent the past week with Amanda in my arms, making love to her. Partly as a distraction, partly just to help her remember that she was still alive. But coming back to Methos, to our bed, was coming home in every way. Even after all this time -- longer than I've been with anyone continually...well, almost continually -- our sex life is never boring. He's a constant surprise, my Methos. My Methos. Hah. He'd cackle if he ever heard me say that, but he thinks of me as his as much as I think of him as mine. Even if he only tells me so when I'm pinned underneath him. Jesus, just thinking about it is enough to make my face flush bright red.

So...I'm not sure why I never told Methos about Jim, or why I don't think about him more often. But I never expected to see him again, not after I'd sold the place in Seacouver and moved to Paris pretty much full-time. We've been here more than fifteen years now. We gave up the barge after awhile -- it just wasn't big enough for two men who both need their own space -- and bought an old townhouse in the Marais district, just across the river. Notre Dame is still visible from the roof, and St. Joseph's is just far enough away to make a great route for a morning run across Ile St. Louis and through the Latin Quarter. There's another Immortal priest at St. Joseph's now...very different from Darius, but I like him a lot, and I like that he's carrying on Darius' tradition there.

My life has changed a lot since I last saw Jim, and I really never expected to see him again. So when I was walking through the lobby of the Ritz after a business lunch, it was all I could do not to fall over when I saw him coming right toward me.

I saw him first, and I was so surprised that I almost stopped dead in my tracks before I forced myself to keep moving. He was older -- still sexy as hell, but older -- but that wasn't what surprised me. His eyes weren't the same; it was almost as if the light inside him had been switched off. It hurt to see him like that, but I forced myself to keep moving toward the door. He couldn't see me like this, looking just as I had almost twenty years ago. I know he didn't see me at first. I think he caught sight of me just as we passed each other, but dismissed the recognition and kept going.

The long walk in the bracing midwinter chill should have helped, but I was still shaking inside when I got home. First...I had to know. A quick call to the Ritz confirmed what I'd already known in my heart. Part of me hoped I'd been wrong, but I was quickly put through to Monsieur Ellison's room by the efficient hotel operator. I hung up before anyone answered. A second call revealed that Blair Sandburg wasn't registered at the hotel.

Jim. Someone who I'd known for so little time, who'd given me so much. And he'd looked so sad. What was wrong? What had happened to that delightfully free-spirited young man he'd been with when I'd last seen him in Cascade? Was he still a cop? Why was he in Paris? I knew I should just let it go, but I didn't feel like I could, or like I wanted to.

~~~~~

I tried to settle down, puttering around with chores, but my mind kept churning. Finally, I gave up and took a mug of coffee into the study, setting it down to get the fireplace going. The chilly room warmed up quickly. The study is one of the reasons we love this house, but I can't help thinking of it as a room with a split personality. On the one hand, there's more computer gear than you could shake a stick at, top-of-the-line stereo equipment, and a flat, widescreen video monitor built into the wall. But the computer gear sits on top of the beautiful old mahogany partner desk we share, and we listen to the stereo and watch old movies while sitting in old-fashioned, overstuffed furniture or lounging on a thick, 18th century rug in front of the fireplace.

The study takes up half the ground floor of the rambling old house, with the kitchen and dining area taking up the other half. The second level is mostly a huge sitting room, to which we've added a wet bar, with a small bedroom in the back. The master suite and another small bedroom are on the third level, along with access to the broad, flat roof. I exercise up there when it's warm enough and at a local gym when it's not.

I smiled when I thought of the second floor bedroom. In a few weeks, we'd be preparing it for a visit from my goddaughter, Mary. She was a junior in college, and she was coming to Paris to spend her spring break with us, as she had each year since she turned fifteen.

My mind wandered toward the welcome distraction of planning for Mary's visit as I settled into the overstuffed chair. As much as I love the rest of the house, I love this room best, and I usually find it very calming just to sit here in front of the fireplace, gazing out the window from time to time. But I couldn't keep my mind off Jim for long, and I was still sitting in front of the fire when Methos arrived home about an hour later.

He shrugged off his jacket, shivering with pleasure as he adjusted to the warmth of the room after the outdoor chill. "Hey, Mac," he said, dropping a pile of books on his side of the partner desk.

"Hey, yourself," I answered with a smile. "How was class?"

He leaned back against the desk, unlacing his walking shoes. "About half of the brats were absent! I guess it was too cold to go to class. What spoiled children. If they only knew..."

"Yeah, how back in the Paleolithic Age you were grateful for the chance to walk to class...barefoot, in the snow, uphill..."

"Both ways," we finished together. He rolled his eyes as he tossed his damp shoes in front of the fireplace. An old joke, and a silly one at that. But having old jokes was just one of the things I treasured.

I watched Methos as he rubbed his hands together in front of the fire. His cheeks were red from the cold. I stood, moving behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist, resting my head on his shoulder.

"Mmmm..." he mumbled contentedly. "It's nice to be home. It's positively arctic outside."

It was just above freezing, actually. Pretty temperate for Paris in the winter, but I wasn't about to argue. I lifted my head long enough to nibble on a chilly earlobe.

"How was your day?" he asked.

I paused as I remembered Jim, my confused feelings returning. I released Methos and turned toward the window. "It was fine," I answered. "The client was pleased with the pieces we found in Tuscany." That's who I'd been meeting with at the Ritz, an antiques client.

"Yeah?" he replied. "So what else happened?"

I shrugged, half-turning toward him, but not meeting his eyes. "Nothing..."

"Uh-huh. So why've you been brooding?"

"I wasn't brooding."

"I bet you were sitting here for at least an hour before I came home."

Fuck. Sometimes I really hate living with someone who knows me so well.

"I wasn't brooding," I dissembled. "I was thinking." I sunk onto the sofa. Wow, that was clever, MacLeod.

"Okay," he said reasonably as he sat next to me. He turned sideways, shoving a pillow behind him and leaning back against the armrest. Instead of sprawling, marking territory as his own, he was drawing himself into as compact a package as possible, deliberately sharing the space with me. His toes brushed against my thigh. "So what were you thinking about?"

I sighed. "I ran into someone." His back tensed, and his chin jerked up abruptly. I shook my head. "No, not like that. Someone...someone I knew about twenty years ago. Someone I met while I was living in Seacouver."

"Did she see you?"

Funny, that, how Methos assumed the person in question must be a "she." I shook my head again. "He's a he. I'm not sure. It was at the Ritz. I recognized him right away, and I think he might've caught a glimpse of me."

"Well, it happens..." Yeah, it happens. It never happened to me before the twentieth century. The world used to be a lot bigger; it took longer to get from one place to another, and if I met someone when they were 18, by the time I moved on, the chances of running into them again when they were forty or fifty were minimal. This past century, it had happened a few times, like when I ran into Linda Plager and Peggy Lang. The "grandfather" thing usually worked...more or less...but it wouldn't with Jim, and I didn't want it to.

"So..." he prompted. "Who was it?"

"He was..." I began. He was...what? A cop who fucked me over Joe's desk? A lover? A friend? All three? "We...met in Seacouver, about six months before you and I met, I guess. Before Anne. He was visiting on business and wandered into Joe's. We had..." I trailed off. We had what, MacLeod?

"An affair? A spring fling? A one-night stand?" he offered helpfully. He was teasing, not mocking, which made it easier for me to continue.

"Sort of, I guess." I smiled sheepishly. "We saw each other twice before he had to go back to Cascade." I paused. "It was much more intense than a one-night, or two-night stand. I don't know how to describe it. It's not that it was love at first sight or anything. But we had...we recognized something in each other. We connected, somehow."

I picked up one of Methos' feet in both hands, rubbing it, enjoying the feel of his skin under my fingers. I looked over at him. He was watching me intently, silently urging me to go on. "Jim needed something, and whatever it was, I was able to give it to him." I took a deep breath. "I didn't see him again for years. Then...after..." I stumbled. Even after all this time, the words were still hard to say. "After Richie...I went back to Seacouver, after Malaysia, to take care of things at the dojo. I didn't handle being back there well. I drove to Cascade, and I found Jim. We spent another night together, and this time, I was the one who needed something. After...I went back to Seacouver and then came back here. I don't know if I'd have been able to do that without Jim." And if I hadn't...who knows what would have happened, if Methos and I would ever have overcome all the obstacles we'd placed in the way of finding each other? A memory of words I'd said long ago flashed across my mind -- who you are can depend on who you meet.

"Maybe I should thank him, then," he said quietly. I'd never asked, but a few times, when the topic has come up over the years, Methos' comments had led me to wonder whether he regretted his decision not to seek me out after Richie's death. He'd disappeared shortly after I had, according to Joe, and it was a year and a half before we saw each other again. But the situation hadn't been one of Methos' making, and setting it right hadn't been his responsibility, it had been mine. I was the one who had needed to find the strength to return, and Jim had helped me do that.

"No," I said, lifting his foot to my lips, kissing the instep. "I should thank him." And there lay the problem: I owed Jim. Jim helped set the events in motion that led me here, to a home, to the person I shared my life with. I wanted to go to him, to find out what had taken the light out of his eyes, to see if I could help.

"So...it sounds like you have good memories of him. What's so disturbing about seeing him, then?"

"Both times I've seen him before...he was so alive. Burning with energy." Methos raised an eyebrow with a mild grin, but passed up the opportunity to point out the innuendo. "At the hotel...it was like seeing a shell of him. I don't know what happened. In Cascade, he was involved with someone..." I briefly told him about Blair, how he'd gone away for the night to give Jim and me time together.

"He sounds pretty special."

I started rubbing the other foot. "Yeah. It was real between them; Jim was in love. Happy. I wonder what happened."

"You want to go to him, tell him, don't you?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "Part of me, yes, I want to, very much...to see if I can do anything."

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he sighed, using a tone of voice that hasn't changed in twenty years. His "I love you, but I don't know what to do with you sometimes" voice. His "it's not your job to take care of everyone" voice. But he didn't bother saying any of those things. I knew what he'd say, and he knew that I knew. Instead, he asked, "Do you think you can trust him?" About Immortality, he meant.

"Yes," I replied immediately. "I think I can trust him." I paused, trying to articulate my real concern. "But what if he's sick, or if he's just lost Blair? Isn't learning about Immortality going to make it worse?"

"Maybe," he answered. "Maybe not." He looked away, and I knew he was thinking of Alexa. He'd told her, even though he knew she was dying. It had made it easier for her somehow, to know someone would remember her, love her, maybe forever. Methos had known Alexa well enough to know how she would feel about it. I didn't think I knew Jim well enough to guess.

But that wasn't the only reason. If I went to Jim..."Methos..." I began.

"Duncan," he said quietly. "This needs to be your decision. But if you want to go to him...if you think it would help...then you go. Whatever there is between you two, it's nothing to do with us." His voice was calm, confident. "You'd say the same to me, wouldn't you?"

There was a time when I wouldn't have been able to honestly say yes. There was a time when my own insecurities, my own jealousy, would have been overwhelming if we'd been in the reverse situation. But sometime over the years, I'd become as confident in Methos' love for me as I was that the sun would rise in the east tomorrow. Somehow, we'd struck the balance of belonging to each other without owning each other. "Yeah," I said, my voice a little choked.

"I know," he said. He slipped off the couch and leaned over to kiss me, softly brushing his lips over mine. "You decide what you want to do. I'm going to make us some dinner. How do you feel about veal?"

I smiled. "Sounds good."

"Good. Then I'm going to kick your sorry Scottish ass at chess." He smiled wickedly before leaving the room. I settled back to think, contemplating whether -- and how -- I should approach Jim.

~~~~~

The next evening, I stood in the shadows, huddled in my coat, watching the area around the entrance to the Ritz. Jim hadn't been in his room when I'd called a few hours ago, so I thought that my best chance of catching him was on his way in. I was hoping that he was still in the habit of walking rather than taking cabs, although the longer I waited the more doubtful it seemed that anyone would walk rather than sit in a nice warm cab on a midwinter's night. Standing and waiting without drawing attention to yourself isn't something that comes naturally, but I've had plenty of practice over the years. And I'll take a street in Paris, even on a cold night, over a foxhole -- or worse -- any day. It was a little after eight when I finally saw him turn the corner onto the Place Vendome. He was moving in my direction, and I started walking towards him; if this didn't go well, I'd rather have it not go well on the street than in the doorway of the Ritz. He was looking down at the sidewalk, which worried me. "Jim," I said when we were about ten feet apart.

He looked up and blinked, and shook his head slightly. "Duncan?" he asked. "It can't be..."

"It's me, Jim." I smiled a little, not wanting to overwhelm him with information and not wanting to have any more of this conversation on the street than we had to.

"But...you're exactly the same, and I haven't seen you in...Jesus, almost twenty years."

I smiled wanly. "Would you believe I have really good genes? Eat real well?"

"No," he said flatly, but the corners of his lips raised for the first time. For a moment he glanced up and down at me before his eyes met mine again, and, for just a second, there was a flash of the expression I'd first seen so long ago, the look that made my insides turn to water. It was almost as if he remembered something, but then it was gone again, replaced by the flat expression I'd been so troubled by yesterday. "What..." he began, "how could..."

"Can we go inside, Jim? Somewhere private? I'll tell you what you want to know."

He nodded, and I followed him into the lobby of the hotel.

~~~~~

"You are four hundred years old," he said flatly. About twenty minutes later, we were in the sitting area of his mini-suite. I don't think the Paris Ritz has plain old hotel rooms anymore.

"Four hundred twenty-one," I replied, but he just shook his head, having difficulty reconciling what I'd told him with everything he thought he knew. "Do you need to see me die and come back? Will that help?"

He shook his head. "No, it's just...Jesus. People who live forever. That's...incredible. And you don't get any older, or get sick?"

"No," I said quietly. "We stay at the age we are when we die the first time. We can get sick, we just can't die from it."

"That's incredible," he repeated. "You've got it all, you know?"

I shook my head, forcing away an ironic laugh. Little did he know...and he really didn't need to know all of it. "Jim...you're right, immortality has given me amazing opportunities, but it isn't always easy. We live in the shadows, in secret. We can't have children, and the mortals we love grow old and die." Or they don't grow old, and they still die. "I was almost burned at the stake as a witch once, and even though we like to think otherwise, some things haven't changed much in 300 years. You understand why you have to keep this a secret?"

He snorted. "Yeah. I understand. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone." He moved to refill his drink. "Why are you here?" he asked quietly.

I paused, again hoping I wasn't intruding or making a bad situation worse for him. "Did you see me in the lobby yesterday?"

He sat down again in the armchair across from the sofa. "I caught a glimpse of you when you were almost past me...I thought it was someone who looked like you." His eyes met mine, and that expression flashed across them again. "I guess I should have known that nobody looks like you."

I smiled, letting my eyes wander over him. He didn't look much different from the way he had 17 years ago. He was in his mid-30s then, so he's...52 now? 53? If I'd just met him, I'd have been about ten years off in guessing his age. His face was slightly more lined, mostly around the eyes, a little in his forehead. His eyes were still bright blue, his body still lean and firm.

It wasn't the package that was the problem, it was the spirit; I knew the symptoms well enough to recognize it in someone else. But now that I'd seen him close up, I was almost sure that whatever was wrong, he wasn't ill.

"What brings you to Paris?" I asked, trying to guide him into telling me what was wrong without asking flat-out.

He looked away. "It's a long story."

I wasn't used to giving up quite so easily. "I have plenty of time," I replied, and he smiled at that, but it faded before he spoke again.

"Someone died because of me," he said quietly.

I swallowed quickly. Memories of my own losses came flooding back, but I shoved them away, focusing on Jim. "I'm sorry, Jim," I replied. "Who was it?"

"My partner. A rookie detective."

Okay, so it wasn't Blair. So, where was he? "How was it your fault?" I probed gently.

"That's the part that's the long story," he answered, looking at me to see if I'd give up. He sighed, then continued. "Back in the '80s, I was an Army Ranger," he began. "My helicopter crashed in Peru, and I was the only survivor. I was stranded for months before I was rescued. After I came back...something had happened to my senses in Peru. They were all stronger than you could believe...and they'd kick in at different times, unexpectedly. I had no idea what was going on until I met Blair," he smiled wistfully. "He was a grad student then, studying the work of this 19th century guy who came up with this theory about people who developed enhanced senses for the purpose of protecting their tribe..."

"Sir Richard Burton," I blurted out.

Jim's mouth dropped open. "You've heard of him?"

I smiled. "I knew him." Jim blinked at that. "He's one of the most interesting -- and colorful -- people I ever met." Colorful was putting it mildly. But suddenly I put the pieces of what Jim had been saying together. "You're a Sentinel," I said.

His eyebrows lifted, a vaguely pained expression crossing his face. "Yeah, I guess I am, or was, anyway."

It made sense. Jim's focused intensity, his unusual sensitivity to touch, to taste...my cheeks flushed a bit with the memory of it. But I still hadn't heard what was wrong. "Go on," I encouraged gently, pouring from the bottle of expensive Ritz brandy and handing the glass to Jim.

He tossed the drink back quickly. "So...I was the subject of Blair's thesis, and he helped me learn to use my senses instead of getting thrown off-balance by them." He set down the glass and stood, moving to the huge windows that looked across the Place Vendome. "We got together then...about a year after you and I...after we met in Seacouver."

I listened, waiting for him to tell me more, but he just stood at the window with his back to me, watching Paris on the cold winter night, and I wondered just how far he could see. But he was silent, and I couldn't tell what he was thinking, couldn't see the expression on his face.

I stood, but I didn't approach him. I just leaned against the back of the sofa, watching him quietly. "You were so happy with him when I saw you in Cascade."

He nodded, not speaking. I decided to take the risk that he would tell me to go to hell and mind my own business. "What happened between you and Blair, Jim?"

I could see his shoulders rise and fall as he took a deep breath, his face barely visible in the reflection from the glass, his arms tightly wrapped across his chest. "A lot of stuff happened, and Blair left the University before he finished his thesis. He went through the police academy and became my partner." He paused and turned toward me for what I felt was the first time in hours. I smiled and reached my hand out toward him. He grasped it, our fingers entwining tightly, lacing through each other. It wasn't a sexual gesture, just one of support and compassion. One person with his own difficult stories to tell reaching out to another.

He leaned against the couch next to me before he continued. "Blair's a great cop. But he never lost his thirst for research, for the different challenges that being a teacher and researcher could offer him. I knew it, and I wanted him to be happy, so I encouraged him to pursue it. After a few years, when the trouble he'd had -- it's a long story -- " he looked at me, and I nodded, "had died down, he'd get offers to come and lecture or teach all over, at different law enforcement institutes, think tanks, that sort of thing. And the Cascade P.D. knew how valuable he was and gave him the leave. Besides, it was good for the Department's reputation."

He squeezed my hand before releasing it and stood near the window again. "Once, he was away -- Quantico, I think -- and I was working with a rookie detective on a tough case. Tommy Martinez, a bright guy, a cop with a great record. He didn't know about my senses, though. Almost nobody knew it was for real." I didn't quite understand that, but I didn't want to interrupt. "We were hunting down a suspect -- a killer -- one night. We were near the docks; it was raining and hard to see." I could tell he was reliving the experience from the set of his shoulders and the tone of his voice, filling with increasing tension. I moved to stand behind him this time, placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him here with me, to keep his mind from wandering too far into the past.

"My eyes -- I picked up something a few dozen yards away, and I was sure that Tommy was behind me. I'd heard him there just a few seconds before. He was behind me and to my right," he said with certainty. "I saw the movement, the reflection of a gun in the water on the ground, and as soon as the guy moved, I fired." He swallowed, and I knew the rest of the story. "It was Tommy. I don't know how or when, but I'd misjudged everything. What I saw, what I heard. Nothing was where I thought it was."

Jim moved away from me, returning to the sofa and pouring himself another snifter of brandy. "That was almost four years ago. Since then...it's been a mess. The Cascade P.D. decided it was an honest mistake, a 'tragic accident,' and they didn't discipline me. But I haven't been back on the streets since. I took a leave, I did desk duty. For a while Blair blamed himself for not being there, beat himself up, and I should have done a better job reassuring him...but what really scared me, Duncan, was that if Blair had been there, it would have been him instead of Tommy that night. I'd have killed him because I relied too much on something I've never really had control over."

"Where is Blair now?" I asked quietly.

His eyes were roaming around the room, looking anywhere but my own. "About six months ago, he finally had it. He didn't say it, but I could tell he couldn't deal with me anymore. I was bored as hell riding a desk, feeling like I didn't belong in the police department anymore. Irritable. Impossible to live with," he said. "So this outfit in Geneva offered him a six-month consulting job, and he took it. He's done now, and he asked me to meet him here tomorrow night....probably to tell me he's leaving for good."

"Jim!" I barked, surprised at my own vehemence. "He probably wants to reconcile with you! Why would he ask you to meet him in the most romantic city in the world, in this overpriced honeymoon hotel, if he didn't want to get back together?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I wouldn't blame him, though. He's a star. He can have a great life, write his own ticket at some smart farm, or consult anywhere he wants. Why would he want to stay with me?" He looked at me, but his eyes were ice cold, and I felt like he was looking straight through me. "I don't have anything to offer him anymore."

"Jim..." It sounded so trite, but it was the truth. "It was an accident. You don't judge the sum of a whole life by one act, no matter how bad it is." Hell, you don't even judge it by the sum of a few centuries, give or take. "Blair loved you before, he loves you now. Who you are hasn't changed."

"Of course it has," he said bitterly. "I was the cop who could clear practically any case, who never let go once he had hold of something, like a dog with a bone. Now...now I'm a burnt-out desk jockey who killed his partner."

He still didn't get it. "Jim...I don't know how to tell you this." He looked at me, and I could see he was holding back, so tense he was about to burst. I slid from the chair and knelt next to him, taking one of his hands in both of mine. "You are more than a cop. There's more to you than that. Do you think Blair loves you because you cleared cases?" He smirked a bit. "What you do isn't who you are. I've played a lot of different roles in my life, done a lot of different jobs. Some I'm proud of, some I'm not. But they didn't change who I was. Only people change you."

It was the truth, and I hoped Jim would realize it sometime, even if he couldn't see it now. Only the people who really touched your life could influence the person you were, the person you would become. I'd been so lucky, had so many...Connor, Darius, Fitzcairn. Amanda, Tessa, Richie. Methos. And Jim. Though our time together had been brief, it had been pivotal in determining the course of the last 17 years.

My heart ached for Jim. I wanted to heal him, to make him better, and send him back to Blair the man he had been, the man he could be again. I looked at him again, hunched over, clutching my hand so tightly that I could feel the skin bruising and healing. "When all else fails, go with the obvious," a certain friend of mine was fond of saying. I could do obvious. I squeezed Jim's hand tightly before I gently let it go, and I moved next to him on the sofa, dropping an expensive Ritz cushion onto the thick carpet. "Sit," I said, pointing.

He looked up at me. "Duncan..."

I pointed. "Sit," I said, in a tone of voice that hasn't changed since I commanded troops in the Napoleonic Wars. I was gratified to learn it still worked. He sat, and I laid both hands lightly on his shoulder blades, just to let him get used to my touch. He flinched anyway, and I winced. How long had it been since this man, so aware of his senses, had been touched? Had it been the entire six months Blair had been gone? Whatever the answer, it had been too long. I rubbed gently at first, using my palms, feeling the tense groups of muscle under my fingers. I began massaging his neck and shoulders firmly, trying to manipulate the tension away.

"Ouch," he protested as I found a particularly worrisome knot.

"Breathe," I ordered.

"I am breathing," he replied, uncooperative.

"Well, now you're going to breathe how I tell you to," I said, equally peevish. "Take a deep, slow breath through your nose." I was pleased when he did as I said without more resistance.

"Now...slowly...blow it out through your mouth....Again," I said after he complied. It was helping; the oxygen loosened his resistance, easing the knots in his neck and shoulders.

"Wow," he said, moving his neck experimentally from side to side. "That really worked. Where did you learn that?"

"Mongolia," I answered tersely. Like most of what May-Ling had taught me, the breathing exercises were so firmly rooted in common sense that they seemed like magic.

"Duncan," Jim said, turning his body and capturing my hands in his. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but..."

I slid down on the floor next to him, sitting against the legs of the overstuffed chair. We must have looked like a couple of kids, sitting Indian-style on the carpet. "No 'buts,' Jim," I interrupted. "It's the least I can do." That was really all I could say.

"I appreciate that," he said, slipping into what must be his Professional Cop Voice. "But...you can't change what happened. Nothing can. I killed my partner. I can't just let it go."

"It's not about letting it go. What happened will always be with you. Tommy Martinez will always be with you." He winced as I said the name. "But it is about forgiving yourself and moving on. Not letting it determine the course of the rest of your life." He shook his head, unbelieving. "Trust me, Jim, I know what I'm talking about here." Did I ever. Did he want a list? Alphabetical or chronological? What could I tell him that wouldn't sound like a tale from a Stephen King novel, or a sweeps-week historical miniseries, too far removed in time and place to be of any relevance to him?

"Jim...do you remember what I told you in Cascade? About Richie?" Oh yeah, better practice what you preach, MacLeod...the truth is, I can barely say his name without choking on it, even after twenty years.

"Yeah, you told me..." he blinked and looked at me. "That he had died in an accident, and it was your fault."

"I killed him," I blurted out, forcing my eyes to meet his. "I was tricked into doing it, but it was me who did it, and I'll always wonder if I'd been more clever, more prepared...." Shit. This was supposed to be about Jim, so why the fuck am I the one sitting here choking back tears? But it was the truth, the hard, painful truth about something I hardly talk about. I do talk about Richie, sometimes, with Methos or Amanda or Joe, but about his life, not his death. And of all the painful, aching regrets, of all the memories that hurt to think about, Richie's death will probably be the last one I remember at the moment my head leaves my shoulders.

"But you didn't do it on purpose," he said firmly, as if he couldn't possibly doubt it was the truth.

"Neither did you," I replied. He blinked, and then his eyes met mine. He looked stunned -- deer-in-the-headlights stunned. I looked straight back into his eyes and saw immediately that they were filled with emotion again.

"No...it wasn't..." he stammered.

"So what are you going to do?" I asked, keeping my voice level. "Spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for it, or go on living? Which do you think Tommy Martinez would want you to do?"

He looked from side to side, as if on the verge of an important understanding. "I don't know," he answered blankly.

"I think you do," I said, softening my tone this time. "I think you know he wouldn't want you to be beating yourself up four years later."

"When you were in Cascade...you were sort of a mess." I raised my eyebrows. True enough. "Sorry..." he went on, "but you were."

"Yeah, I was." I waited for him to go on.

"How did you...go on?" His eyes searched mine, desperate for something, for an answer that would give him hope that moving on with life was possible.

I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. "It took time, partly finding my own peace with what had happened, partly through the support of my friends. Friends like you, Jim. You helped me."

"I didn't know if I could help, when you showed up in Cascade. I hoped I could."

"You did." I smiled at him. "Blair did, too, by giving us the space to be together that night."

He frowned. "Yeah. Blair's incredible."

"He loves you."

He shrugged. "He did...but I drove him crazy these last few years."

"Don't decide for him, let him make his own decisions." I urged. The parallels to my own relationship were obvious. So much of the balance Methos and I had achieved had been about each of us giving the other space to make his own decisions, his own mistakes. We give our opinions -- there's definitely no shortage of opinions in the townhouse -- and we listen. We each have a talent for pointing out the other's weaknesses; he knows when I'm indulging anger, and I know when he's giving in to fear. But we've somehow learned to accept the decisions we don't agree with...and know that the other person will still be there when we get home. That sort of unconditional acceptance -- love -- means to me more than anything else. It's the most secure I've felt since I was a child.

"He decided to go to Geneva." I heard the pain in his voice. The abandonment. Had he been an abandoned child, too?

"Jim, he just needed a breather. Time to let you find yourself, maybe. It doesn't mean he was giving up on you. Time apart isn't a bad thing, when you've been together a long while." I couldn't keep a sly smile from finding its way onto my face.

"I guess a long while has a whole different meaning for you, huh?"

"Yeah. If we're lucky," I smiled. "What did Blair say when he left?"

Jim paused, thinking. "That he needed time away. A change of scene."

"Maybe that's all it was," I suggested.

"Even if it was...I'm terrified of seeing him tomorrow." His eyes dropped again. I could see how hard it was for him to admit his fear.

"Why?"

"It's been so long since I connected with another person," he said, turning his face toward me again. "After everything happened, I just shut off. It was the only way I could handle it."

"It's not that unusual." We all have our own ways of shutting others out. I think I've run through most of them at one time or another.

He turned his eyes away again, uncertain. "I'm just not sure if I can, anymore. What if I can't?"

"You can, Jim," I said softly. "It's not something you forget. In fact, I think not connecting is something you have to work at pretty hard. We're connecting now, aren't we?"

"Are we?" He looked back at me again, and I could see the spark of life that had been missing back in his eyes.

"Yeah," I replied. I reached toward him, caressing his cheek with the backs of my fingers before cupping his chin in my hand. His face was still smooth, his skin still soft. Almost twenty years? It could have been twenty weeks. I turned his face back toward me. "Yeah, we're connecting, Jim," I answered his question. "That's never been a problem for us, has it?" I said, letting a little bit of innuendo creep into my tone.

He moved my hand into his own, squeezing it tightly. "No. I guess not." He paused, looking around the room again, down at my fingers, anywhere but into my eyes. I waited, wishing I knew what he was thinking, how he felt.

"Jim..." I leaned forward, using my other hand to turn his chin toward me again. I wasn't thinking anymore, just going on instinct, and I brushed my lips softly over his. His breath caught in his throat, but he leaned toward me, our foreheads touching. I kissed him gently again, but he felt still and unmoving underneath my fingers. "Tell me if you want me to go," I whispered. "It's okay if you do."

"No..." He pulled me toward him again, and our lips met, our mouths opening to each other this time. His tongue against mine was tentative, probing, but it sent a shiver of desire through my entire body. I shifted my body in front of his, wrapping an arm around his neck, caressing the taut skin, pushing my fingers up through the soft, fine hair at the nape of his neck.

"Duncan," he said, struggling for breath as he pulled away. "Duncan," he repeated. I didn't need his words; his eyes said it all -- the Look was back, that same one that had passed between us that night in Seacouver. And I couldn't help but smile a little, because the Look signaled Life. The heat, the intensity, the desire -- none of it could exist in a deflated, defeated spirit like the one I'd seen in the lobby the day before. But at the same time, I could feel the tension reverberating through his body.

"What's wrong, Jim?" I asked softly, nuzzling against his cheek, his forehead. Maybe it would be easier for him to talk if he didn't look into my eyes at the same time.

"I don't know," he said. "It's just...it's almost too much." He couldn't say it, but I knew, I could feel it. Jim was almost shaking with it...his need for intimacy, for connection, waging war with his fear, the lack of trust in himself he'd developed since the accident with his partner. I knew the fear, the awful, heart-pounding fear, the overwhelming intensity that slammed into the base of your spine when you let yourself feel again for the first time after months or years spent numb. I knew how scary each moment could be, wondering when the feeling would be ripped out from under you again.

But the alternative...the alternative was to go on living life numbly, without feeling anything at all. And that wasn't life. It was death. It was how you ended up like Brian Cullen or Byron.

Jim deserved better. Maybe, just maybe, I could help him past it, help him experience the joy and push past the fear.

"I know," I whispered, placing a hand over his chest. His heart was pounding madly. "I know what it's like...don't think, Jim. Just feel."

I kissed him again, hard this time, trying to distract him with sensation so he wouldn't have time for fear. My hands slid across his chest as I invaded his mouth, unbuttoning his shirt while I slid my tongue over every surface it could reach. He responded almost violently, grasping my shoulders so firmly that I could hardly move to yank off his shirt. The reminder of his sheer physical power sent a rush of arousal through me.

I finally managed to pull his shirt off, letting it drop on the floor behind us, and slipped my arms around him. His back was warm, still flushed from my massage, and his skin felt soft, smooth, the muscles firm underneath my fingers. Our kiss deepened further, and I could almost taste his need.

Jim's grip on my shoulders loosened, and he plucked at the fabric of my sweater, finally pulling away from my mouth and allowing both of us to suck in much-needed air. "Take this off," he said, his voice caught between a harsh whisper and a growl. Our eyes met, and I could feel his gaze through my skin, down my spine. For a long moment, I don't think either one of us breathed; we just stared at each other, my fingers poised at the hem of my sweater as my pulse quickened.

"Off," he repeated, breaking the spell. I did as he ordered, reaching down to yank the sweater over my head and off. One hand reached out, and his fingers traced a line down my throat onto my chest and back again. As I watched his eyes follow his fingertips, I could feel every nerve ending come alive under his touch, almost as if his own sensitivity was feeding back to me, somehow. We both caught our breath while he continued his slow, careful exploration of my chest. I'd started getting hard when we kissed, and his deliberate, firm touch wasn't doing anything to cool me down.

He moved suddenly, his touch becoming more demanding, pushing me back on the carpet and moving to kneel over me. My heart caught again at the sight of him poised over me like a huge cat ready to pounce, his hands on either side of my chest. His eyes were bright with heat, with need, our mutual lust feeding back into each other, multiplying. One of his hands moved to my groin, exploring, pressing gently, and I arched into his touch with a groan, my eyes closing as my head dropped back. "Jesus, Jim..."

My own hand moved to my belt, but he stilled it, and I opened my eyes again to see him looking at me, glimmers of fear back again. I took a deep breath, trying to control my own need, and I moved my hand to brush it over his forehead, his cheek, lifting my face to kiss him, gently this time. His fear shivered through him, and there wasn't much I could say, but I said the one thing I thought really mattered. "I trust you, Jim."

He traced his fingers across my face, brushing my lips, nose, eyelashes, before returning his lips to mine. "I know," he whispered into my mouth. "I want you," he said quietly, a confession, a promise, and a plea at the same time.

My lips curved into a smile under his. "Then take what you want."

His mouth captured mine as his hand pressed against my chest again, pushing me back down to the carpet. I toed off my shoes as he moved his hand quickly down my stomach, unbuckling my belt and unfastening my trousers. His hands yanked them open as his hot, wet mouth moved down my chest, licking, biting, tasting my skin. I lifted my hips, and he pulled my pants off, but left my briefs, glancing up quickly before he moved to rub his face over my erection, the combination of the heat of his skin and the friction from the cloth forcing a harsh groan from me. I felt his smile as his mouth opened, his tongue teasing me, hinting at what I really wanted.

He pulled away suddenly, grasping my hand and pulling both of us to our feet. Blood rushed to my limbs, and I felt boneless, weak everywhere except for my cock. "You may not be too old for the floor, but I am," he said, smiling at me. I wrapped my arms around his naked back, kissing him thoroughly. It pleased me deep inside that he had decided to challenge his fear...not to mention that I really, really wanted him. He broke the kiss and turned me toward the bed, squeezing my forearm before disappearing into the bathroom. I pulled the bedspread off and blankets back, pulling my briefs off before sinking onto the bed. I turned my head into the pillow, and it must have been the one Jim had been sleeping on, because I could smell him. Jim's scent enveloped in linen vividly brought back the memories of those nights we spent together long ago, so vividly that I ached with it, and it was all I could do to keep my hands off my own cock.

Jim returned before the ache became unbearable, a shadow in the darkened room, naked and very hard. My mouth watered at the sight of him, his power and strength. He dropped something on the nightstand before sitting next to me, his hands on either side of my chest, poised like a big cat again. I couldn't bear to wait any longer, and I lifted my body toward him at the same moment he moved toward me, our lips and tongues combining in a crash of pure heat. Our hands were everywhere, mine stroking his back, the warm, smooth flesh of his ass, his shoulders, his arms. His hands felt like they were all over my body at once, leaving every inch of flesh tingling with sensation and aching for more. I groaned with pleasure when his weight shifted on top of mine. God, I loved that, the feeling of a body broader and heavier than mine pinning me down, pressing me into the mattress.

His fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head at the perfect angle for his mouth as one of his legs pressed between mine, pushing my thighs apart. Our tongues and cocks pressed against each other, and I was lost in the sensations of wet and heat and friction. I shifted, trying to spread my thighs farther, to urge him where I wanted. One of his hands moved away, but returned moments later, slipping between our bodies. We never stopped kissing, our lips finding every inch of each other's mouths and faces as his slick fingers probed me, first gently, then more forcefully as I arched into him, thrusting against his hand. My body jerked when he touched my prostate, and I turned my head, sucking in enough breath to ask, to demand, "Jim..."

It was all I could say before speech deserted me again, but he didn't make me wait any longer, pressing my knees against his chest as he replaced his fingers with his cock, thrusting deep on the first stroke. I wrapped my arms around his back, and he pressed against my chest, pushing me farther into the bed, holding me down with each deep, hard stroke. I gasped with the pleasure of it, pulling his mouth against mine to taste him again. Each thrust of his hot shaft sent bright sparks of pleasure down my spine and through my cock, and each time he pulled back, the smooth skin of his hard stomach brushed against my own throbbing cock. I sucked his tongue mindlessly, my brain helpless with lust, my body helpless and spread wide on the bed, pinned down by his weight and strength. I could feel us both starting to peak, far too soon for my liking, but neither of us could stop once the inexorable build had started. I cried out with pure lust when Jim lost his last bit of control, mindlessly thrusting as deep as he could. The sparks of pleasure ignited into pure heat as I spurted hot, wet liquid onto both our bodies just before Jim groaned and stilled deep inside me, pinning me down as he came.

It felt like forever before either of us moved, but that was okay. I loved the feel of his body against mine, a

warm and heavy blanket covering me, our hearts pounding against each other. I had no particular desire to move. Eventually, he lifted his head, kissing me as he slipped his spent cock out of my body. He shifted and slipped from the bed, and I rolled onto my side, relaxing my tense thighs. He kissed me again as he wiped a wet cloth over my stomach, tossing it aside before sliding next to me and wrapping his body around mine again. With his chin on my shoulder, his chest against my back, his heart finally slowed, and I felt his lips against my neck just as I drifted into a contented, satiated sleep.

~~~~~

I slipped from the bed at dawn and stood by the huge windows that overlooked the Place Vendome and the rest of Paris. The sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon, a dull glow beginning to lighten the wintry sky. Jim moved a bit, and I glanced over at him. Nothing was ever certain, but I felt hopeful for him now. It would be hard work, but he had the will and the courage to put his life with Blair back together. Was it partly my ego doing the thinking? Maybe. But I knew I hadn't really done anything -- I'd just steered him in the right direction, perhaps showed him that he had the strength and the inner resources to keep living.

As someone had once shown me.

I turned back toward Paris. The sky was brightening just a bit more. Some of the clouds had passed during the night. It was going to be a perfect winter day. I'd stay until Jim was ready for me to go, and then I'd go back to the townhouse. To my home. Our home. Even after more than a decade, the thrill of those words still strikes me every time I say or think about them. Home...to Methos. Where I belong.

Yes, I thought as I turned back toward the bed. I climbed in next to Jim and slid my arms around him. We both had a lot to look forward to.

~ the end ~


End file.
